I wince as I take out the loaded tray from the dishwasher and set it on the sink. I start polishing the glasses mechanically. It's still early. There's hardly anyone in the bar. The Latino music is loud in my ears, just how I like it. It fills the crannies in my head and doesn't leave room for anything but the routine polishing movements, setting the glasses upside down on the shelves, one next to the other like soldiers ready for battle. It is soothing. Grounding. It brings order and order is good. Order and routine and rules.

No secrets. No yelling. No accidents. Not anymore.

I load another tray and wince again as I lower it into the dishwasher and programme another cycle. I straighten up and breathe slowly until the tenderness in my ribs subsides. Not deep breaths. Deep breaths are painful for now. But it won't be for long. Give it two days. It will pass.

The memory of Keith's livid face on the other hand, inches away from mine, flicks of his spit in my eyes, his words worming their way deep inside my head... that will take longer to go away and it hurts more than all my bruises put together.

I was fine. Things were falling into place. The morning after Sosa moved in, Keith and I turned the storage room into a cosy little bedroom for her. She was calmer. Happier. And so was I.

She told her father she moved out. She told him about Derek and he was surprisingly supportive. He wanted to report him to the police but she didn't let him. He promised he wouldn't tell anyone where she was as long as she stayed in touch, which she did.

For the past few weeks, Mr Mifsud has been visiting us once a week, just so that he can see for himself that we are doing okay. Sosa and I prepare a meal and the four of us eat together. Keith and Mr Mifsud talk about football all night. They're both Manchester United fans. It feels good when he's there. Like we're striving towards some form of normality. And while Keith and I still argue, our cold apartment is finally beginning to feel like home. Or at least, it was until life struck us once again, like the impending promise that it is.

Derek found Sosa. He came over to the store and made a scene, not giving a damn about me or the surveillance cameras. Sosa tried to fend him off but seeing the maddened look in his eyes, I pulled her into the back room and locked the door from the inside while I called Jeremy. I held a shaking Sosa, tightly covering her ears, as I listened helplessly to Derek tearing up the store on the other side of the door. Then Jeremy's voice came strong and resounding and I opened the door just enough to peep through the small gap.

Jeremy didn't even bat an eye as he grabbed Derek from behind his shoulders and threw him out onto the pavement, threatening to call the police if he ever so much as saw him lurking around the square. Derek spat at him and mumbled something about minding his own business but he scrambled into his car and drove off nonetheless.

Jeremy rushed back to us as we slowly crept out of the back room. His eyes did not leave my face for a second, scanning me like an X-ray monitor. I almost burst into tears. I hadn't seen him in months, since I moved in with Keith. I thought he'd reach out. I thought he'd take me into his arms just like he used to. And I would have run into them even if just to have a moment of peace, even if just to wrap myself in his safety for mere seconds. But he just closed his eyes and told us to take the rest of the day off.

We didn't say much on our way home and once we got inside, we just sat in the balcony drinking coffee, staring over the green fields. I asked her about Shaun, but she just shook her head.

Hours later, Keith came home and found me sitting by myself in the dark kitchen. He asked what happened. I told him. For some stupid reason, I told him everything.

"You're still running to him," he snarled.

"It's his store! Who else would I call? He's my boss," I yelled.

"You'll always be his bitch!" he retorted.

I pushed him. He pushed me back. I crashed into the table, the dirty mugs smashing onto the floor. I stood up and slapped his face. He pushed me again and the whole bookshelf came crashing down on my head.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

The slight wine glass I've been polishing for the past five minutes slips from my hand and shatters at my feet with a deafening sound. I look up and see a beautiful, Eastern European-looking woman, probably in her late twenties, smirking at me from across the bar. I force a polite smile and ask what I can do for her.

"One glass of rosé and one glass of pinot grigio," she says in a throaty voice.

Her accent is soft but noticeable. There is something familiar about her, even though I'm certain I've never seen her before. She taps her gold-painted fingernails irritably on the granite surface of the bar.

I nod in acknowledgement and turn around to get two wine glasses from the shelf behind me, careful not to step on the broken glass.

"Is everything okay, babe?"

I turn around just as the leggy blond is joined by a tall, striking man. My eyes zero in on his hands as they settle around her waist. Our eyes meet and both glasses slide from my hands to the ground and shatter mercilessly beside their fallen comrade.

I stare back at him, shocked and scared, vaguely aware of the woman rolling her eyes beside him. My heart palpitates dangerously, drowning out the sound of everything else. He's wearing a sharp, dark-grey suit with a pale blue shirt underneath.

I suddenly remember where I've heard the woman's voice before. It greeted me over the phone an eternity ago at one o'clock in the morning. So this was Babe?

The man beside her narrows his eyes at me and pins me to the ground with a look I know too well as he puts two and two together.

"Ally? What are you doing?" Jeremy asks suspiciously.

Babe's eyes travel to and fro, from my stunned face to his, her expression not quite as smug as it was a few seconds ago.

"I... I..."

Damn it!

"Do you work here?" he asks, furrowing his brows.

"You know her?" Babe asks, digging her gold nails into his arm, clearly unhappy with the possibility that there may be a connection between her big catch and the clumsy bartender.

Jeremy ignores her and looks at me expectantly.

"Yes, I work here," I say finally.

"Why?"

"Because I do!"

I turn around and reach for another two glasses. The throbbing pain in my torso is soothing in comparison to this. I grab the rosé from the fridge and pour it into one of the glasses.

"Jeremy, how do you know her?" I hear Babe squeak.

Once again Jeremy ignores her, leans in and hisses towards me, "Why didn't you tell me you needed money? Your exams are in two months! And you should be due an assignment soon, no? You should be going through your course material not working two jobs!"

I rest the bottle on the counter, avoiding his piercing gaze. I would probably be insulted if I weren't so worried about the latter part of his statement. Jeremy's face tightens and he moves in closer so that I have no choice but to look at him.

"Your exams are in two months, aren't they?"

His tone is calm but his eyes are raging. I shake my head slowly, guilt oozing from me like a pungent odour. "I... I had to put that on hold..."

My voice comes out small and timid.

"Why?" he asks again, this time through gritted teeth.

"Hello? I'm sorry but how do you know my boyfriend?" Babe demands, the annoyance written in bold on her botoxed face.

My eyes immediately turn back to Jeremy.

"Boyfriend?"

Babe looks at me complacently and all I want to do is give her a reason to redo her botched nose.

"Don't change the subject. Why aren't you going through with your diploma?"

I don't answer him. Or her. 

I grab the bottle and turn to the fridge, searching frantically for the bloody pinot grigio.

"Ally!"

The sound of his fist slamming against the bar and the urgency in his voice startle me and I jump. The swollen muscles in my back seize and I whimper a little with the pain, clutching at my side reflexively. I recover quickly but it's too late.

"What's wrong?" he asks sharply.

The alarm in his voice makes me squirm. I close the fridge and turn to face him with what I hope is my best poker face. "I'm sorry, we're out of pinot grigio. Can I offer you something else?"

His eyes turn deadly. The muscle on the left side of his face is threatening to bust his skin open unless his teeth break first with the sheer force of his clenched jaw.

"Lift up your shirt!" he demands.

"What?" Babe and I say in unison.

"Lift up your shirt!" he says louder.

"I am not lifting up my shirt! And please lower your voice, I work here!" I hiss at him, looking around to see if anyone heard.

He looks at me threateningly for a few seconds then, without a word he makes his way purposefully behind the bar and straight towards me, ignoring Babe's protests. I move back as the broken glass cracks beneath his feet and only stop when my back makes contact with the shelves. He stops when he's as close as possible without our bodies actually touching.

The scent of him, a mixture of the spicy cologne, cedar wood and honey, hits me with a wave of familiarity and I am certain that if the hellish look in his eyes wasn't bolting me to the counter behind me, my knees would have given away.

He removes my scarf with one swift motion and rips the first three buttons of my blouse, completely oblivious to Babe's shocked gasp and the small crowd gathering behind her. I feel completely powerless and remain still as he slides my blouse gently over my shoulder. The scratch of cotton over my tender skin is uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as I feel standing so close to him, looking up into his face, knowing he's about to flip.

His eyes burn like magma as they leave my face slowly and take in my bruised neck, shoulder, and arm. He lifts the collar backwards and his face becomes grave as he sees the abrasions on my back. When he tears his eyes from my torso and brings them back to mine, I see they're not blue anymore but black. A terrifying, stormy black.

My eyes fall to my feet, but he lifts my chin with his fingers and his thumb brushes over my lower lip delicately. I shudder beneath his feather-light touch and look into his eyes, begging my heart to calm down, afraid that this savage beating in my chest will bruise my sternum as well.

"Did he do this to you?" he says, his voice so low I'm sure no one else can hear him. 

My eyes fill with tears. I remember Keith's manic eyes as he left me trembling beneath the pile of books and broken ornaments. They were wild and electrifying, like those of a maddened animal. Yet the fear they instilled was nothing compared to what I'm feeling now as Jeremy's pupils dilate and meld with mine.

"It was an accident," I croak.

I feel his fingers tremble slightly over my chin as his jaw clenches once again and his nostrils flare. Then, with a sinking feeling I hear another familiar voice coming from behind him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Jeremy's lips tighten. His grip on my face intensifies and I can tell that he recognises the voice too.

I give him a meaningful look, begging him to drop this and walk away. But when has Jeremy James Cordina ever let anything go?

He turns around and looks squarely at Keith, a mixture of anger and disgust in his eyes. Keith matches him with a glare that says he's had enough. He's walking purposefully towards us into the bar, but Jeremy keeps calm and takes one step towards him to make sure Keith is at arm's length from me.

"Jeremy, don't!" I say placing my palms on his back to try and calm him down.

I feel his muscles stiffen beneath my fingers.

"You hurt her?"

Keith's dark brown eyes widen. His brows furrow in my direction and I know he thinks I told on him. He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out as Jeremy takes another step forward and punches Keith squarely in the nose.

Keith falls instantly to the floor and before he can process what's happening, Jeremy is on him, clutching him by the collar as his fist smashes into his face again and again.

I ignore the screams and yells from the crowd and grab Jeremy from his shoulders, trying to pull him back. But he brushes me off like I'm nothing more than I pesky fly. Keith, his face splattered with blood, uses this opportunity to his advantage and smashes Jeremy in the back of the head with a liquor bottle from the cabinet behind him. It breaks instantly and drenches Jeremy in brown liquid. Keith gets up and lunges towards Jeremy. They stagger backwards, but he's no match for him. Jeremy is significantly taller than him, his arms twice as thick. I literally hear him growl as he grabs Keith from his shirt and slams him into the shelves behind him, glasses falling and shattering all around them.

I scream and beg for them to stop but they can't hear me. Both men have their eyes bulging out of their contorted faces, teeth bared, veins throbbing. I see Keith's face turning redder and redder as Jeremy presses him further into the shelves.

I touch his arm lightly, hoping the contact will break through his rage. "Please, Jer," I whisper. "Let him go. Let him go!"

"I'll kill you! I swear to God," Jeremy snarls, his bloodied fists wounding tighter and tighter into Keith's torn shirt. His face is so close to Keith's neck, it looks like he's about to rip out his throat with his teeth.

I quickly press the panic button under the bar but there's no need. Security is already barging through the doors and jumping over the bar. Both of them grab at Jeremy and drag him away with difficulty.

Keith falls to his knees as he tries to catch his breath. I kneel down beside him to see if he's okay. He's bleeding heavily from his nose and mouth and has a large wound in his hand where the bottle split it open. He spits blood onto the floor beside him and I look up at Jeremy. He's soaked wet and has a small cut on his forehead but that's it. The guards are still holding him back when his hard eyes meet mine. I see them thaw a little as he gradually comes back to his senses. He stops struggling and I see his usual wall come back up as he looks at me, crouched down with Keith's head in my hands, begging him to please, please! just go home.

He brushes off his suit gingerly and wipes the blood off the side of his head with his bare hands, making it look worse as the red liquid smears against his pale skin. He looks blankly at Ronnie, the security guard who is calmly telling him that he needs to leave, then nods absent-mindedly at him as he turns back to me. His lips quiver a little as his heaving chest slows down.

"Come on, babe. Let's get out of here."

He turns around, puts his arm around Babe's shoulders and leaves the bar with her without looking back.